


Don't Mind Me Falling in Love With You

by cx_shhhh



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, Childhood Friends, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Grantaire is a Mess, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining, R is a psych teacher because I just really enjoy the subject, Romantic Fluff, Strangers to Lovers, and really persistent, feelings everywhere istg, he also has a gay brain in more ways than one, mutual simping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 17:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30025527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cx_shhhh/pseuds/cx_shhhh
Summary: Grantaire minds—pundefinitelyintended—his own business for the most part, but when the new teacher turns out to be his only friend from childhood, his usually organized feelings turn into a jumbled mess.Unfortunately for him, Grantaire used to pick on Enjolras quite a bit when they were younger, so there's absolutely no chance for them to work well romantically, right?
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 39





	Don't Mind Me Falling in Love With You

**Author's Note:**

> If your name is [Malin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeopleAreScary), I appreciate you for being the beta for this absolutely terrifying excuse of a fic and literally all my other ones.
> 
> Cue Enjolras's awful wooing methods.

_Fifteen years ago…_

“Enjolras! You’re too slow!” ten-year-old Grantaire exclaims, running away from the little blond boy chasing him.

His bare feet sink into the grass and accidentally catch on a stray root sticking out of the ground. With a yelp, he falls over, allowing Enjolras to catch up and tackle him. Thin arms wrap around his middle and refuse to let go even as Grantaire wriggles and kicks out.

“Caught you,” Enjolras says, triumphant. “I demand my reward now.”

“Okay, okay!” Grantaire wheezes. “What do you want? Lemme go!”

His friend ponders this for a moment, tapping his chin with one finger, and shrugs.

“Just for you to admit that I won.”

“I tripped! That isn’t fair.”

“You were running too quickly. If you had looked around, maybe you would’ve noticed it.”

Grantaire won’t allow himself to be insulted by someone three years younger than him, so he shoves at Enjolras and feels an odd sense of satisfaction when he topples over. Grass stains Enjolras’s white shirt, but his blue eyes remain calm, probably because he has gotten so used to the teasing his friend has always bestowed upon him.

There are few things Grantaire can lord over Enjolras. One thing being his height, which he takes great pride in. He is tall enough to rest his elbow on Enjolras’s head, strong enough to push him over, and smart enough to win their petty arguments.

Sometimes.

* * *

“Maman, what do you mean, ‘Enjolras is leaving’?” Grantaire wails, clutching her mother’s sleeve. “He’s my only friend!”

She pats his head and replies, “You’ll make good friends with other kids your age and then forget about him. When you return to school, you should get to know our other neighbors like the boy downstairs—Joly, I think his name is?”

Wiping his eyes angrily, Grantaire storms away, only stopping when he bumps into a familiar body.

“Don’t rub your eyes, R. That’s not good for them.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re moving to Paris?”

Enjolras shrugs, “I didn’t know either until earlier this week. Don’t worry, I’ll return before you know it, and then you can marry me.”

That is another thing that Grantaire will never understand. Marriage requires love, and he doesn’t love Enjolras like that. His parents are divorced, so he always assumed that marriage was nothing special.

“Hah, you wish. Why do you keep insisting we get married?” he asks.

“It’ll happen. Just you wait.”

“You’ll forget about me, and I’ll forget about you. At least that’s what Maman said.”

Enjolras looks him in the eyes, and Grantaire is almost ashamed to say that he cowers a little under that intense blue gaze. The afternoon sun catches on his friend’s hair, and Grantaire’s breath hitches. He feels his heart flutter with the breeze that ruffles his curls.

“I’ll never forget about you, and that’s a promise.”

* * *

_Present day._

After Grantaire grades what must be the hundredth essay on perception, he heaves a great sigh and looks at the clock in his classroom. The school should be empty by now, but he insists on staying behind to finish his grading before he departs, just so he can enjoy his time at home with only the occasional glass of wine for company. He isn’t an alcoholic; he just indulges when he needs a break from psychology, and inspiration to paint suddenly hits.

Setting his green ink pen down, Grantaire reaches up with his other hand to remove his glasses. At twenty-five, his vision is slowly getting worse and worse, and working in the dark definitely does nothing to improve his sight. His friends claim the glasses make him look even cuter than he already is, their words, not his, but he thinks that they just make him look like a fucking hipster.

Grantaire puts a lot of effort in his wardrobe, making sure to color-coordinate ties and suits. He is a self-proclaimed artist, so he has a valid excuse to do so. His glasses and their thick black frames can just go fuck themselves for ruining his aesthetic.

Either way, he spins around in his chair, because it’s one of those fun spinny ones, and gets up, ruffling his hair because after a day of teaching, his curly hair refuses to stay put anyway.

“R!” Joly exclaims, jolting him out of his reverie. “Ready to go?”

Grantaire locks his classroom to let the custodian know not to clean it. Don’t get him wrong, he’s a nice guy, but everything is tidy and set up just perfectly for his body and mind to function. His pens are all neatly arranged in a cup, the brain model he sculpted himself is as colorful and shiny as always, and his desk is orderly and immaculate. There are no crumbs on the floor since he made it very clear on the first day that eating is not allowed; nobody should be subjected to having to witness someone else chew obnoxiously.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Joly has always been a good friend and colleague, ever since they first attended school together before getting degrees together and somehow managing to find teaching jobs together. Luck has favored them, even after Joly found his boyfriend, Bossuet, who never seems to have any sort of luck except bad luck. Their girlfriend, Musichetta, is definitely a godsend, so luck smiled upon them all when she appeared into their lives. Now, Joly links arms with Grantaire and drags him out the back door to walk home together.

“So, have you heard?” he asks, and Grantaire shakes his head questioningly. “Well, there’s a rumor wandering around the faculty.”

“Please, do enlighten me.”

“You know how Lamarque retired because of an injury earlier this semester, right? Well, they just interviewed someone, and I overheard one of my students moaning about how hot he is.”

“Joly, darling, we teach a bunch of horny teenagers. Your student is probably attracted to anything on legs,” Grantaire snorts. “Aren’t you teaching sex ed right now too?”

“Irrelevant. We’ll just have to see for ourselves, I guess.”

Bossuet and Musichetta welcome them home with lots of hugs, and Grantaire lets himself be swallowed by affection. It’s nice coming home to his friends and a crowded apartment. He helps Musichetta make dinner because he is the only one she trusts not to freak out or burn down the kitchen.

As Grantaire dices onions, his friend asks, “Students still behaving?”

“Yeah. I think I really messed with their minds today, but it’s all in a day’s fun. Tomorrow, we’re making Play-Doh brains.”

Musichetta wrinkles her nose in disgust, and Grantaire giggles. He isn’t too fond of the smell either, but after the first period, he won’t be bothered by it at all. Besides, his students have always had fun with that lesson.

“It’s really nice how much you care about your kids.”

Grantaire looks down and smiles at his slipper-clad feet. Little fuzzy cat faces stare back at him.

“They’re all really nice. Psych isn’t a class that people take if they aren’t actually interested in the subject, and they all pay attention to my lectures.”

He also tries to integrate hands-on lessons once in a while, and he likes to think that his presentations are interesting enough to maintain attention.

Musichetta smirks, “Or maybe they just enjoy staring at your face.”

“‘Chetta!”

“You and your cute ass are more than welcome to join us.”

Grantaire laughs and shakes his head, saying, “You three are too inseparable. I’d feel like an intruder.”

“Aww, R, you could never feel like an intruder. We all love you way too much.”

“I’m flattered, but I’m not exactly looking for anything or anyone at the moment,” he replies with a sigh, thinking about the picture he keeps on his nightstand. His friends all ask about it, but he always shakes his head and gives them a secretive smile.

It’s been fifteen years, but he still wishes that Enjolras might come back for him. There has been nobody else to fill that gap, simply because he harbors a tiny sliver of hope that Enjolras wouldn’t have forgotten about his promise to- to marry him.

Musichetta hums and gives him another hug nonetheless, which he melts into, just because he can. Their conversation turns into a companionable silence as they prepare the rest of the food.

* * *

A week later, Grantaire casually strolls down the hallway into his classroom, only stopping to smile and wave at his fellow teachers. Courfeyrac greets him with kisses on both cheeks before skipping away. Grantaire smiles at the early students waiting for the first period to start, disregarding whether they are people he recognizes or not.

He maintains this cheerful mood all morning, which may be because it happens to be one of those days that faculty members don’t have to wear “teacher clothes”. He’s wearing a T-shirt with a little cartoon brain and a pun on it and simply living his best life.

Of course, Grantaire should’ve learned by now not to become too optimistic.

During his first class in the afternoon, he grows steadily more and more confused.

“Monsieur Grantaire, is someone yelling next door?” Gavroche asks.

“Uh, just talk quietly amongst yourselves. I’ll be back soon.”

He strides to the door and closes it gently behind him, not quite sure what to expect. The noise is coming from Lamarque’s old classroom, so he raps on the door with his knuckles, and when it continues, sighs and tells himself that nobody will hurt him before opening it.

At the front of the room is a blond man, who could definitely snap Grantaire in half if he wanted to. He isn’t yelling so much as just speaking loudly and passionately, waving his hands around in the air to accompany what he says. His students all watch raptly, but that could just be attributed to his ethereally gorgeous face. He still doesn’t look at the door, even when Grantaire is standing fully inside his classroom. He simply continues talking about the government and its systems, seemingly already adjusted enough to lecture on his first day.

Grantaire clears his throat quietly, and when that still doesn’t work, shyly speaks up, “Ah, Monsieur-”

“Yes?” the new teacher replies immediately. “Is there something you need?”

“Um, you’re kinda disrupting my class—could you just tone it down a little?”

Grantaire resolutely ignores the students looking back and forth between them with wide eyes. Clearly, this man is intimidating, and to ask him to essentially shut up will probably get him killed.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Sorry.”

“Thank you.”

Exhaling deeply in relief once he is out the door, Grantaire presses a hand to his chest to feel his rabbiting pulse and will his heart to calm down. Putting on a smile, he marches back into his own classroom and receives a bunch of curious expressions, but he carries on like nothing ever disrupted his class.

When the bell rings at the end of the day, Grantaire refuses to exit his classroom, essentially hiding behind his desk to grade homework. He tells himself that he isn’t doing this to avoid Hot Teacher next door, but he definitely is. Wait, when did he start referring to him as Hot Teacher in his mind?

“R, you can’t coop yourself up in here.”

“Shh, Joly, go away!”

Joly approaches Grantaire’s desk and pulls his arm, only to have him curl up into an even tinier ball in his chair, loafers likely leaving marks on the cushion.

“It’s too nice outside to waste away here. Besides, what’s with the sudden secrecy?” he asks. “Ooh, lemme guess. Is it-”

“No!”

“I didn’t even say anything yet!”

Grantaire pouts and crosses his arms, slumping down in his chair even further. Judging by the glee on his friend’s face, Joly knows exactly why he’s in such a mood. Not even cheery cartoon brains can lift his spirits now.

“Joly, I love you, but please, I’m just trying to disappear.”

“He isn’t that scary, is he?”

“Oh, he definitely is. I had to go in and tell him he was too loud!” Grantaire shudders at the memory from barely two hours ago. “He looked at me all intensely and then immediately carried on… at a quieter volume, at least.”

Joly hums, “Well, I had a chat with him, and he seemed quite nice. He was also asking for your name.”

“Yeah? And did he give you one in return?”

“Do you happen to be talking about me?” a familiar voice interrupts. Grantaire lets out an “eep” and nearly falls out of his chair.

“What? No, of course not. And don’t you know it’s rude to just barge in on someone’s conversation?”

Hot Teacher leans against the doorframe—how dare he—but he looks apologetic, which immediately makes Grantaire’s heart speed up a little.

“Right. Sorry,” he says before a smug expression works its way onto his face, and he has the audacity to approach Grantaire’s desk. “But don’t you know it’s rude to talk about people behind their backs? No matter. My name is Enjolras, and I teach government and politics next door, as you probably already know.”

Grantaire’s face pales. Enjolras? As in, scrawny, stick-limbed Enjolras? How many people have the last name Enjolras?

But now that he looks more closely, he notices the similarities between the man in front of him and his childhood friend. The blue eyes and blond hair are the same, but clearly, he has had a couple growth spurts between then and now. If Enjolras wanted to, he could easily take revenge and use Grantaire’s head as an armrest. Okay, that is a bit of a stretch, but Grantaire’s point still stands. Enjolras is _tall_ and definitely fills out his button-down better than anyone he knows. The collar is open, and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows—something he must have done after school ended.

Right. Snapping out of his stupor, Grantaire mumbles out his own introduction before the atmosphere can turn too awkward.

“What was that?” Enjolras asks, leaning forward. Any closer, and they could be kissing. Oh dear, where did that thought come from?

“I’m Grantaire- _HAVE A NICE AFTERNOON!_ ” he exclaims, standing up abruptly and grabbing Joly by the sleeve. If Enjolras is surprised in the least, he sure doesn’t show it, so Grantaire leaves in a whirlwind of flustered human.

Only when he is outside does he notice that he has absolutely none of his possessions on him.

“Fuck!”

Joly pats him on the shoulder, and he can only hope Enjolras isn’t still lingering around.

* * *

“R, he looks at you like you hung the stars,” Joly says a few days later. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Grantaire sits on his bed, hugging his knees to his chest and feeling like he’s a teenager again, and his friend is scolding him for being reckless.

“He doesn’t look at me like that. He barely knows me.”

“You’re a marshmallow. Everyone loves you.”

“I have to admit, I’ve never been called that one before,” Grantaire quips. “Is it because I’m squishy?”

“Sweet and absolutely lovely. But I digress. You looked like you saw a ghost when Enj introduced himself.”

He sighs into his pillow and shakes his head before turning his head to glance at the picture frame on his nightstand.

“Before I befriended you, I knew a little boy named Enjolras,” Grantaire starts. “I was introduced to him when I was just six, and he was three. I… Well, I definitely mellowed out since then. I basically bullied him, what the fuck! He probably hates my guts!”

He lets out a little wail and bites down on his pillow while Joly pats his back.

“Well, you’ve changed, and that’s what matters.”

“And then he left like a cliché rom-com stereotype.”

Joly coos and pinches Grantaire’s cheek.

“Aww, I’m sure there are plenty of people named Enjolras. Are you sure he’s the same person?”

Grantaire gives him a deadpan stare and bites his pillow again.

“His eyes are the same,” he replies in a muffled voice and then suddenly finds himself drowned in a hug. He elects not to inform Joly of arguably the most important part of that story.

That night, after tossing and turning and reciting facts about the different stages of sleep to himself in a sorry attempt to fall into a deep slumber, Grantaire gives up and pads across the hall to his friends’ bedroom, hoping they are decent. Thankfully, they are, so Joly and Bossuet eagerly make space between them. Grantaire snuggles in gratefully, and Musichetta pulls the covers back up around the four of them as he dreams about familiar laughter and wonders what Enjolras would look like in the sunlight now.

* * *

It is safe to assume that Grantaire avoids any more potential accidental run-ins with Enjolras. He feels like a student seeing his first crush again, speed-walking in the opposite direction before their eyes can meet. Whenever Enjolras tries to start a conversation, Grantaire mimes checking his nonexistent watch and makes up some random excuse like Joly needing him to draw diagrams of reproductive systems.

To be fair, he did have to do that. It was both enlightening and a little weird.

Eventually, Enjolras corners him into having an actual conversation with him.

“R, what are-”

Grantaire blurts out, “I’m having tea with Joly in, uh, five minutes.”

Enjolras only stares at him incredulously and says, “Joly is in the middle of teaching.”

Grantaire feels his cheeks heat up at the scrutiny and internally curses when his lenses become slightly fogged. When he turns on his heel and aims to walk away, he is quickly stopped by a hand around his wrist. It’s warm and grounding and- he attempts to shake it off, and it’s removed in a heartbeat.

“Why do you always come up with an excuse to leave when I just want to get to know you better? Was it something I did? Oh God, if I made you uncomfortable, I can ask to switch classrooms with Courfeyrac.”

He looks so much like a kicked puppy that Grantaire’s heart melts, so he impulsively reaches out to touch Enjolras’s sleeve.

“No! No, it’s, um. It’s complicated. I’m just a mess and a social disaster, so it’s totally not your fault.”

“You? A mess? I’m sorry, but I’ve seen the inside of your classroom before. If you consider that a mess, then mine is a whole dumpster.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches weirdly in an attempt to hide his smile when he replies, “Pay attention, Monsieur. I called _myself_ a mess, not my classroom. We’re two separate entities.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wants to kick himself in the face to shut himself up for eternity. He’s acting like Enjolras is one of his students, for heaven’s sake. He does have to give credit to himself for not just him freezing and stuttering some nonsense.

“Touché.”

“Damn- dang, right,” Grantaire replies, looking around to make sure there aren’t any students around to catch his slip-up. Enjolras only looks amused.

Grantaire wants to kiss that expression off his face- no, he doesn’t. He feels his cheeks burn.

“Anyway, I would love to talk to you some more, but our lunch period ends in about fifteen minutes, and I have to get ready for my next class,” Enjolras says, and there is an audible note of regret in his voice.

“Ah, yeah,” Grantaire mutters, a little shaken because nobody really enjoys talking to him. He’s too matter-of-fact, cynical, if you will, and outside of his lectures, people don’t really find a conversationalist in him. Or maybe because he always manages to turn the topic back to what he loves most: the brain. Specifically, the very gay sculpture in his classroom… or his own very gay one.

Grantaire closes the door to his classroom after hearing Enjolras do the same and leans against it, taking a few deep breaths to center himself. He probably needs to do a few sessions of yoga to calm the turmoil he has felt more in the past few weeks than in his entire life, ever since his new colleague appeared… or reappeared, depending on the way he looks at it.

* * *

It goes on like this for a while, the two of them exiting their classrooms at the same time between periods to chat, and sometimes, Enjolras yells at the couples in the hallway for too much PDA. _He fits right in,_ Grantaire thinks with a snort.

Before their arguments can get too personal—the definition being completely loose because Enjolras definitely expresses his personal opinions about the government once there are no students or administrators in earshot—the bell rings, signalling the start of the next period, so Grantaire always breathes a sigh of relief when he is safely behind his closed door.

If Enjolras finds out that he is the same asshole that tortured him for years and stops talking to him altogether, he has no idea what he would do. Avoiding eye-contact would be even harder if that ever happens.

Grantaire starts his lesson, rising on his tiptoes to turn the projector on and not noticing the figure standing in the doorway.

“Today, we’ll be learning about…” Grantaire starts before turning around and noticing Enjolras. “Er, can I help you?”

It takes his colleague a moment to recalibrate, as his gaze was fixed somewhere much lower than eye level. Grantaire chalks it up to the fact that Enjolras is tall and has to look down on a lot of people.

“Can I borrow your stapler? I don’t have one, and my students have to turn in an essay.”

Grantaire nods and waves him toward where it sits, perched innocently on his desk. And then he fixes Enjolras with a shrewd stare.

“Make sure you return it.”

It takes Enjolras ten strides to cross the room on long legs and another ten to disappear out of it. Grantaire releases the breath he didn’t realize he was holding and goes back to his lecture, only to be greeted with a bunch of dumbstruck faces.

“Is that M. Enjolras?” Gavroche asks.

“That’s a rhetorical question,” Grantaire mutters in reply. “Now, back to the lesson.”

True to his word, Enjolras comes back and places the stapler exactly where he found it, right in between Grantaire’s pens and his gay brain—the sculpture, not his actual brain. And then Enjolras leaves, closing the door behind him as slowly and quietly as possible because he’s actually a considerate bastard when he isn’t ranting about the government and disrupting the whole hallway.

Grantaire observes that none of his students turn to watch what is clearly more interesting than what he’s lecturing about, but that may be because he’s lecturing about focus.

* * *

One particularly late Friday night, Grantaire switches off the lights and locks his classroom, only to notice that the adjacent one is still illuminated. What could Enjolras possibly be doing this late?

Grantaire opens the door tentatively and walks in, not sure what to expect. He certainly never expected to find Enjolras slumped over his desk, eyes closed. Not sure if his colleague is actually asleep or not, Grantaire calls his name softly just in case he’s awake and merely resting his eyes.

Unfortunately, Enjolras doesn’t respond, so he has no choice but to step up close and reach for his shoulder. He stops in his tracks when Enjolras’s eyebrows furrow, but he continues to sleep on. From up close, he looks even more beautiful, so Grantaire has no choice but to admire him from a purely artistic standpoint, or so he tells himself. As kids, he always envied those perfectly shaped features and the soft curve of his cheeks. Soft is probably the last word Grantaire would use to describe him now. All that roundness has disappeared into sculpted cheekbones and a jawline sharp enough to slice into his hand.

“Enjolras, wake up,” Grantaire murmurs, shaking his shoulder gently.

He watches as Enjolras’s forehead pinches, and a bleary eye cracks open to look right at him.

“Hmm?”

“Um, you should go sleep at home in an actual bed. Your back will thank you for that tomorrow.”

Grantaire wonders when he suddenly became so concerned about Enjolras’s well-being. Then again, even if he was such a little shit all those years ago, he did always care about him, making sure he was never injured too heavily. Other kids always bullied Enjolras because his face and hair were “too girly” or because his arms and legs were too twig-like.

Now, Enjolras is more handsome than anything else, and he definitely looks strong enough to carry Grantaire… not that he wants to be carried or anything!

“Oh, thank you, R. What time is it?” he asks, squinting at his watch.

Grantaire wipes his glasses on his shirt and replies, “It’s been at least five hours since school ended. I don’t know how long you’ve been asleep.”

Enjolras stands up, and Grantaire’s breath hitches at the proximity. He should’ve stepped back before he woke up. Now, there is but a miniscule distance between them, and he has to tilt his chin up to look his colleague in the eyes. He curses his height.

“Well, I should be going back,” Grantaire whispers. “Joly might be wondering where I am.”

“Right, of course.”

He still waits for Enjolras to gather his belongings, lingering and offering a hand should he need assistance. Grantaire watches as he collects a black backpack and the travel mug on his desk that has Robespierre’s face on it.

“What a fucking nerd,” Grantaire announces.

“Pot, meet kettle,” Enjolras retorts and holds the door open. “After you.”

“Thank you.”

Enjolras gives him a tired smile, and he rubs the sleep from his eyes as they walk down the hallway side-by-side.

“Don’t rub your eyes,” Grantaire chides softly. “You’ll scratch your eyeballs.”

“Is that something you learned before or after you got those glasses?” Enjolras teases. “They look lovely on you, by the way.”

Grantaire wills himself not to blush, but he knows his cheeks pinken. He looks away to avoid that intense blue gaze.

“Don’t mock me,” he mumbles. “That’s mean.”

A gentle hand on his cheek brings them face-to-face again, and Enjolras effectively blocks his path before he can duck away again.

“If I offended you, I promise that was not my intention. You are unarguably the most beautiful person I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he declares, and his firm tone of voice leaves no room for argument.

“That’s an exaggeration if I’ve ever heard one,” Grantaire replies, laughing quietly to himself as his last layer of defense. It doesn’t quite sound genuine, though, even to his own ears.

All of a sudden, he finds himself backed against a row of lockers, pinned into place with Enjolras’s eyes, blazing with frustration, and then with his lips, hot and insistent against his own. Grantaire would pull away and mock the glaring lack of consent, but all he can think about is the feeling of his colleague’s unyielding mouth. Thank God there’s nobody in the hallway to witness this.

Before he can properly melt into the kiss and accept the tongue pressing insistently between his lips, Grantaire’s inhibitions all flood back to him. With a whimper and two hands braced against a firm chest, he pushes Enjolras away, thinking that Enjolras will regret that this ever happened if he knew who he was actually kissing.

In a broken voice, Grantaire says, “You don’t even know me,” and then turns and walks away before he can read too much into the sadness that takes over Enjolras’s expression.

Back home, he refuses to think about the kiss, but he ultimately fails when he starts crying into his soup at the dinner table. His friends all exchange alarmed glances before Musichetta takes him by the shoulders and softly asks what’s wrong.

“He definitely hates me now,” Grantaire hiccups, burying his face in his hands. Tears spill over his fingers, and before any can get into his food, Joly pulls his bowl away.

“Take a deep breath, R,” Joly says in a soothing voice. “Stop telling yourself that he hates you. I have no idea what happened, but nothing you do can possibly be worth hatred.”

Grantaire only sobs louder, “Enjolras kissed me! And I couldn’t bear the knowledge that only I remember our history together, so I pushed him away. How can I deal with being half in love with him when all he sees in me is a pretty face? And my face isn’t even that pretty!”

“Lies!” Musichetta exclaims. “You’re the fairest of us all, both inside and out.”

Bossuet asks tentatively, “Did he explicitly say that he doesn’t remember you, or did you just assume that he doesn’t?”

“Not everyone has a memory as freakishly good as mine,” Grantaire replies, letting his head thunk against the table where his soup was. “It’s been fifteen fucking years.”

“You should give him more credit,” Joly says. “But I know it’s not your fault. Lack of communication is a thing, and you can be the bigger person by confronting him about it.”

“Joly, have you considered taking my job?”

They all laugh now, but later, Grantaire thinks about the kiss and touches his lips, hugging his pillow, until he falls into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Unfortunately, Grantaire sometimes considers himself a coward, and this is one such instance that calls for that. Their relationship—if it can even be considered one—is back at square one, featuring him steering clear of Enjolras at every possible opportunity. To successfully pull this off, he refuses to leave his classroom during school hours and presses his ear up against the wall joining their rooms to make sure Enjolras leaves before he does after work hours.

Mornings are fine because Enjolras, the heathen he is, still has that obnoxious habit of waking up early, which means he gets to school before Grantaire does, and, therefore, another potential interaction is avoided. He is meticulous to a tee, but that helps with both grading his students’ essays and memorizing Enjolras’s daily schedule.

All this is not to say that Enjolras doesn’t try to get his attention because the man is just as stubborn as he is.

The first attempt to woo him comes in the form of flowers, but seriously, Enjolras? And here Grantaire thought his colleague was against consumerism and all that. Courfeyrac could probably explain it better.

However, peonies do happen to be Grantaire’s favorite flower, a fact Joly must’ve told Enjolras, so he promises not to just throw them away upon first glance. He tries to convince himself that he doesn’t because he knows his students would undoubtedly question why there are a bunch of flowers in his trash can, but that ultimately fails when he realizes that keeping them would lead them to indubitably question why he has a bunch of flowers on his desk. 

Throughout the day, he gets a few curious glances, but nobody is quite brave enough to ask about them out loud. Grantaire notes this just a tad smugly.

At least Enjolras is subtle enough not to give him red roses.

* * *

Scratch that thought. Enjolras is about as subtle as a fucking brick.

The next day, Grantaire walks into his classroom, and his eyes immediately fly wide. Is it too late to call in a substitute?

At his desk is probably the largest, most ridiculous teddy bear he’s ever seen. It’s literally bigger than he is, and wonky in a few places where Enjolras must have gotten frustrated with it. Grantaire doesn’t even know where he’ll even be able to sit, now that his chair is otherwise occupied. He hesitantly approaches his desk as if Enjolras might be hiding behind the bear, ready to ambush him. He knows Enjolras would never do that because he’s truly crafted by the finest gods, and if Grantaire wants his personal space, he would respect that.

That being said, the teddy bear looks really cuddly, and it wouldn’t hurt to hug it while nobody has arrived yet. Upon further inspection, the bear feels even softer than it appears, but it’s still massive and hogging his chair. Grantaire comes up with the brilliant solution to simply sit in its lap until class starts, and anybody who asks about the elephant in the room disguised as a massive teddy bear will just have to suffer the consequences.

That’s a lie. Grantaire isn’t a tyrant, so he’ll just blush if anyone asks.

He is also eternally grateful that the moment he discovers that the bear speaks is during his lunch period. Enjolras’s recorded voice has never sounded better, in his humble opinion. It sounds a little breathless as it sings praises about Grantaire’s lecture slides—which he worked very hard on, thank you very much—almost like he was in a rush while making the bear. Grantaire feels obligated to be endeared that Enjolras would spend the time and effort in his already busy schedule to make a bear for him.

Fuck, he’s caving.

The bear becomes a permanent fix in his classroom, and his students have fondly dubbed him Siggy… to make Freud roll in his grave, of course.

* * *

If Enjolras thinks he can win Grantaire over with handmade chocolate that tastes absolutely disgusting and a vaguely brain-shaped sculpture engraved with every reason why Grantaire is worth loving, he is _so wrong_. Or so that’s what Grantaire tells himself. He really needs to stop being so damn easy for Enjolras. There’s nothing in his course that tells him how to react to kind and thoughtful gestures.

To be fair, Enjolras could’ve bought him chocolate from Monoprix and saved himself the extra effort to be cliché because everyone who _knows-_ knows Grantaire is aware of his massive sweet tooth. When he finally talks to Enjolras, and when they move into a quaint apartment together, he’ll make sure to keep him out of the kitchen.

_That’s wishful thinking_ , Grantaire tells himself, angrily biting into the chocolate and swallowing it despite its overly bitter taste. Really, did Enjolras just take baker’s chocolate and melt it into really misshapen hearts?

If any of his students witness his frustration, they’re honestly too scared to question him about it. At least he has another gay brain model to keep on his desk, barring the obvious inaccuracies.

* * *

Grantaire should’ve remembered that Enjolras, the weirdo, stays late on Friday nights. He doesn’t even bother to listen for any footsteps or loud one-sided conversations from the room next door. It’s been a week of not uttering a single word to him, so he can’t be blamed for forgetting something as menial as avoiding Enjolras.

However, Grantaire regrets this immediately when he steps out of his classroom and comes face-to-face with Enjolras in the hallway. They engage in a miniature staring contest, two pairs of blue eyes fixed on each other’s faces, before Grantaire breaks out of his trance. Since he sees no point in fighting, flight is clearly the better option here.

Since he can’t be a fucking hypocrite and run down the corridor like a madman, Grantaire inhales sharply, narrows his eyes in concentration, and speed-walks like the gay he is. He doesn’t expect Enjolras to give chase, primarily because he always lets Grantaire walk away. _Damn_ Enjolras and his stupidly long legs.

Grantaire gets a strange sense of déjà vu when the toe of his loafer catches on a raised tile that just happens to be in the middle of his path and sends him crashing to the floor. Or he would have and made an absolute fool out of himself had Enjolras not wrapped his arms around him and pulled him back against his chest.

Pulse rabbiting, Grantaire can only focus on his own uneven breaths that don’t line up with Enjolras’s, the points where Enjolras’s arms are touching him, and Enjolras’s delicious warmth at his back. His grip is tight and unrelenting, but Grantaire doesn’t feel trapped so much as simply held.

“You ran away from me so quickly,” Enjolras murmurs quietly, breath tickling the nape of his neck. “If you’d been paying attention, you would’ve noticed that tile.”

Grantaire freezes. That sentence sounds so familiar that a rush of nostalgia invades him, and he can’t help the tears that spill over or the sniffle that escapes.

“What do you want?” he asks, desperate.

“You.”

“Not for me to admit that you won this stupid game or anything?”

Enjolras spins him around in his arms, never letting go, but Grantaire really can’t blame him for that. He shakes his head, and his eyes are tender.

“That’s not important to me anymore. What’s important is that I’ve kept my promises, R.”

“You did,” Grantaire whispers, mostly to himself, tears running down his face, and there’s moisture in Enjolras’s eyes too. “You’re here. With me. Enjolras, you came back for me.”

Enjolras dips his head in a nod and smiles shakily, so Grantaire does the only thing he can think of. He laces his fingers behind Enjolras’s neck and pulls him down for a kiss, stretching up on his toes to meet him halfway.

Grantaire can’t help but compare this kiss to the last, sweet and slow instead of urgent—like they have all the time in the world to live in this moment. And they do, in a dimly lit hallway without anybody to interrupt them.

Enjolras moves his hands to Grantaire’s waist, not quite gripping forcefully anymore but still holding him tightly enough to keep him balanced as they kiss. Grantaire tangles his fingers in Enjolras’s blond hair, sighing softly when he feels teeth sink gently into his lower lip.

He really wants to know when and where Enjolras learned to kiss like this because there is _no way_ this is all beginner’s luck. But then again, Grantaire can stand not knowing if it means deceiving his mind to think that he’s Enjolras’s first official kiss because he’s just the slightest bit selfish like that.

They part with an obscene noise that echoes down the empty hallway. Grantaire knows that his glasses are askew, lips probably bitten until they are swollen and red, and his eyes are glazed over. Not to mention that his traitorous face is probably glowing as brightly as a traffic light. Of course, Enjolras only looks slightly mussed, which is totally unfair, but if he’s going to look at him like he is right now, Grantaire certainly won’t complain.

He lets Enjolras graze his lips and cheek with a thumb and then trace over that path with his mouth, muttering, “Beautiful,” over and over against his skin. For once, Grantaire thinks he doesn’t quite mind that word as he closes his eyes at the sensation.

“It may be fifteen years too late to claim I still know everything about you, but I really do want to,” Enjolras says into the space between them. Just his low voice is enough to send shivers down Grantaire’s spine.

“I’m not that interesting,” Grantaire replies, but he really does want Enjolras to get to know him better.

“R, I _really_ hate to call you a liar, but if our conversations and the way our students talk about how brilliant of a teacher you are have been anything to go by, then you’re truly phenomenal. You can start by telling me about that rainbow brain on your desk.”

Grantaire’s mouth twitches into a smile against his own will before he notices that they are still very much inside the school. At Enjolras’s earnest expression, he reaches down to take the hand offered to him, twining their fingers together and leaning in close.

As they walk out of the school, Grantaire asks, “Hey, not that I’m questioning your memory or anything, but how’d you even remember me?”

Enjolras squints at him like he can’t believe he’s asking him that… which he supposes is fair.

“I promised I’d never forget you, R. Every day, I wondered what you were doing, whether you replaced me or not, how you would look, if you were still even here. Even if I was studying for an exam or walking down the streets of Paris, I’d think about you. I always hoped you would wait for me until I could come back and find a job here, and it turns out you did.”

Grantaire’s cheeks pinken, flattered, and he remarks, “Maybe I should rephrase my question. When you came back, how did you know it was me?”

“I was skeptical at first but only because you came into my classroom and left before even introducing yourself, so I didn’t get a name or anything. I didn’t expect the glasses, but I rather like them. They bring out your eyes, and as cheesy as this sounds, your eyes are pretty unforgettable.”

Grantaire laughs shakily and tucks himself closer into Enjolras’s side. Enjolras drops an arm around his waist and kisses his hair as they walk.

“Then you finally gave me your name, but you ran away. And then you told me that I didn’t know you, which led me to believe you didn’t remember me, so I made it my goal to woo you to into at least giving me a chance, as fucking difficult as you made that.”

“Darling, I’ve been wooed since day one, but I’m the one who never stood a chance. You can’t blame me for thinking that you’d hate my guts once you figure out who I am, which I finally understand was never the case.”

“R,” Enjolras says, stopping them in the middle of the sidewalk. “I swear on my life that I could never hate you. Even when you were being an annoying little shit back then, I still loved you because you cared.”

Grantaire’s eyes widen at the mention of love. Enjolras loved him? Like in a friendly manner, right? Does he love him now, in a romantic way?

“Stop overthinking, R. Yes, I can see those gears turning, and yes, I think I still love you, not just as a friend anymore. I’ve never kissed anyone before I kissed you, and attempts at dates always end with the other party storming out because I’m too bold or assertive. And I don’t make my fingers bleed while constructing giant teddy bears for just anyone,” Enjolras says and in a softer voice, he asks, “Do you feel the same?”

“Do I feel- of course, you dimwit! I’ve never been in a lasting relationship because I’ve always been so ridiculously in love with you, no matter how tall you’ve gotten- what the actual fuck, by the way. It’s been a long time since I’ve slept with anyone, mainly because I turn away anyone who expresses an interest. Even when someone would try to fuck me into the mattress, I’d still feel empty because it wasn’t you,” he mutters and ducks his head, face red. “Um, not that you have to.”

Enjolras reaches out to tilt Grantaire’s chin up before sealing their lips together. Grantaire clutches tightly at his shoulders and melts into the kiss, detecting a hint of possessiveness under the tenderness.

“Of course I have to. I would love to have you in every manner.”

“Come home with me,” Grantaire gasps. “I want to introduce you to my friends, and you can sleep in my bed like we used to. Just to sleep.”

“You only want an excuse to cuddle,” Enjolras teases, poking his cheek before replacing his finger with his lips. Grantaire blushes, but he doesn’t deny it.

“Honestly, you look like you give much better cuddles now,” he says, letting his eyes roam appreciatively. “So warm and mmm.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, and they walk the rest of the way in comfortable silence.

“Guys!” Grantaire shouts, and toes off his shoes before sliding his feet into those beloved cat slippers. Enjolras only looks at him fondly.

His friends immediately poke their heads out of their shared bedroom to see what’s going on. Joly doesn’t look surprised and grins at Enjolras, who returns it, Bossuet glances at him curiously, and Musichetta just downright glares at him.

She might be shorter than Enjolras by a head and a half, but she prods him in the chest and says, “And you think you’re good enough for our R? He cried over you, y’know.”

Thankfully, Enjolras doesn’t rise to the bait, but he does look over at Grantaire with an apologetic expression on his face. Grantaire blushes in embarrassment when Musichetta exposes him like that.

“If I’m being completely honest, I don’t think anyone is good enough for him, but that’s not to say that I won’t try to be,” Enjolras says seriously and squeezes Grantaire’s hand. “If I ever make him cry again, I’ll never forgive myself.”

Well, maybe he should start by not making Grantaire emotional like this. Literally, who gave him the right? At least Musichetta looks satisfied by that answer, so Grantaire nudges Enjolras towards the living room with Joly and Bossuet before joining her in the kitchen.

“So,” Musichetta starts smugly. “You look happy. Your man looks at you like there’s nobody else in the room.”

Grantaire presses his hands to his red cheeks and tries to hide his smile, to no avail.

“Enjolras is not _my_ man,” he protests, but it even sounds weak to his own ears. “He’s his own person. I have no idea why he would choose me when he can have literally anyone else.”

“We’ve been over this, R. Why would I want anyone else when I can have you?” Enjolras speaks up from the doorway, causing Grantaire to squeak in surprise.

God, he looks so unbelievably sexy, just leaning there with his arms crossed. Grantaire finds himself pushed into Enjolras’s arms, so he goes willingly.

In the privacy of his bedroom, Grantaire paces while gesturing for Enjolras to sit down on his bed. And then he stops pacing to perch on his lap just because he can while Enjolras runs a finger over the picture on the nightstand.

“You’re wrong,” Enjolras says simply when Grantaire doesn’t speak up.

“What? Why am I wrong again?”

“When you said that I’m not ‘your man’ or whatever. I am and have been a hundred percent yours.”

“Oh,” Grantaire replies softly. “I’m yours too.”

* * *

The next morning, Grantaire wakes up to tiny kisses being placed against the back of his neck and fingers trailing lightly down his arm, raising goosebumps in their wake. His mouth curls into a sleepy smile, and he catches Enjolras’s offending hand to bring it to his chest and hold it against his heart.

“R?” Enjolras murmurs, voice a little husky. He must’ve woken up just minutes earlier.

Grantaire evens out his breathing, not quite wanting to be a functional human being yet. It’s a weekend, so he has every excuse to sleep in, and Enjolras being so warm and cozy is only the best contribution to his cause of staying in bed all day.

“I know you’re awake, love.”

Fuck. There go his plans.

Maybe, if he stays really still, Enjolras will just give up and continue cuddling him. Grantaire should honestly just quit hoping for too much.

“Wha- Enjolras, stop!” he screeches at the first feeling of a teasing mouth against the side of his neck. “I’m ticklish- GAH!”

“That never changed, it seems,” Enjolras remarks before brushing a kiss against Grantaire’s pulse. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

“That’s so cheesy,” Grantaire mumbles. “You didn’t even wake me up with a proper kiss.”

“Ah, my bad,” Enjolras replies and remedies that immediately.

Grantaire sighs happily and lets his hands wander underneath the soft cotton of Enjolras’s borrowed shirt. It’s too big on him when he sleeps in it, but it fits Enjolras perfectly. He admires the flawless lines of Enjolras’s abdomen and blushes at his own appreciative moan.

In retaliation, Enjolras hitches Grantaire’s legs up around his waist and slides his hands up bare thighs to cup his butt over his underwear and squeeze. Grantaire whimpers against Enjolras’s mouth before backing away to look at him from beneath lowered lashes. After that, Grantaire gets his wish in some form or another when they stay under the covers to make love.

“You’re perfect,” he says later, when he’s effectively encased in Enjolras’s arms. His words are a little slurred, and he’s drunk with pleasure as he lazily lifts a hand to play with fluffy blond hair.

Enjolras smiles, and it’s just on the verge of self-satisfaction, so Grantaire just has to kiss that expression off his face.

“Far from, and I’m pretty sure you’re just saying that.”

“Enjolras, light of my life, you of all people should know that I don’t just say stuff like that. And it’s not because you just made me come twice.”

Grantaire squeals when Enjolras squishes his middle and presses his lips to his forehead. A thumb grazes the skin between his shoulder blades, so he reaches up to cup Enjolras’s face in return. Enjolras closes his eyes and leans into the touch, turning to kiss Grantaire’s left palm right underneath his ring finger, and it feels like another promise. Grantaire tilts his head up to press a tiny kiss to the bottom of Enjolras’s jaw before snuggling in close and falling asleep in his arms once more.

* * *

“And the cerebrum is split into- yes?” Grantaire asks, turning from his rainbow brain model to call on Azelma’s raised hand. His student only gestures vaguely to the door, where Enjolras is standing. He must’ve snuck in when Grantaire was distracted with turning on his projector. Grantaire would call her out for not paying attention, but he can’t blame his class for being so restless on a Monday.

Enjolras is leaning against the back wall, gaze angled downward, and Grantaire wants to simultaneously glare at him in a silent message to tell him to stop being so obvious while staring at his ass, and roll his eyes because Enjolras is staring at his ass with the fondest smile on his face.

When Enjolras looks back up, his expression is still so soft—a drastic difference to the intensity he lectures with—as they lock eyes. Grantaire inhales deeply and wills his cheeks not to turn red. It’s a wonder how, even after spending a weekend in bed with him, he can still get flustered just by Enjolras’s presence.

“Do you need something, or are you just disrupting my lesson for fun?” Grantaire asks with a raised eyebrow. He notes how his students’ eyes widen, perhaps at the sass he’s giving Enjolras. Their eyes widen even further at what happens next.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Enjolras begins, sitting down at an empty desk at the back of the room. “Don’t mind me.”

Watching Grantaire lecture is a total waste of a free period, in his opinion, but Enjolras never takes his eyes off of him once. He looks like he absorbs everything Grantaire says, chin resting in one hand.

“So, can anyone guess the potential side effects of split-brain surgery?” Grantaire asks the class, and only one hand shoots up. “Someone other than M. Enjolras?”

He sighs in exasperation and lets Enjolras answer, internally begging his face not to blush or grin stupidly because he’s so in love with this man who pays attention to him. Enjolras talking about the brain is practically foreplay for him.

“Now, students, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Enjolras asks in conclusion, and Grantaire really wants to kiss him. “Pay attention to the rest of M. Grantaire’s lecture and participate, please.”

As he leaves, Enjolras gives Grantaire a wink so quick he almost misses it before disappearing through the door.

Suffice to say, the students do as their scary politics teacher told them to, and Grantaire thinks that Enjolras should sit in more of his classes if he gets them to focus like they are right now.

When school lets out, Grantaire accompanies Enjolras to his apartment to grade papers together, and he tries to scold him for being the reason why nobody paid any attention to him.

However, Enjolras only laughs and replies, “ _I_ paid you all _my_ attention.”

And what could Grantaire do but pull him into a kiss?

* * *

_Five years later…_

“If you have any questions, the syllabus is what you consult first before you email me, am I clear?” Grantaire asks and smiles at the nods he receives from his new class. “Now, I know you’re all dying to ask personal questions, so I’ll answer one. You’d better think it through carefully.”

The student he calls on asks timidly, “Is that a wedding ring?”

Her classmates all groan, likely because they think she wasted their single chance at potential extra credit, so Grantaire decides to tell them a little story in hopes that his new student might not regret asking what she did.

“To answer your question simply, yes. Yes, it is,” he begins, leaning on his podium and looking at his finger. “My husband proposed when he was seven, but we didn’t get married until three years ago.”

Grantaire glances around at everyone’s curious expressions and suppresses a laugh.

“I was also ten when he proposed, so of course I didn’t accept. What an idiot I was, right? No matter. Eventually, I got out of my head, and now, I live with my handsome spouse, whom I love more than life itself, and our two cats named Aristotle and Plato, who might actually be evil.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the door open and Enjolras sneak in, shutting it quietly behind him. Meanwhile, none of his students seem to notice, all listening, enraptured, by his story. Enjolras’s own wedding band catches the light, and Grantaire feels his heart speed up. He continues waxing poetic about his husband, making sure to keep it school-appropriate.

“He proposed, for real this time, with an album of our fondest memories and a ring in the last sleeve. Romantic, right?” he asks and receives a collective nod accompanied by several dreamy sighs. “Well, perhaps you should ask my husband how he got me to date him.”

Grantaire gets a variety of confused looks at that final statement, and he nearly laughs at the questions that must be running through their heads at the moment. Why would their teacher tell them to ask someone they’ve never met?

“That wouldn’t be such a wise idea,” Enjolras chides, finally speaking up.

This time, Grantaire can’t help but giggle, breaking the stunned silence. His students look back and forth between them in wonder, trying to figure out why the intimidating government teacher next door would be married to their new psychology teacher, likely the friendliest faculty member in the entire school.

The bell rings before anyone can open their mouths, and they all filter out, still shocked speechless. When the classroom and hallway are both empty, Grantaire locks his door and doesn’t waste another moment before launching himself into Enjolras’s arms.

“Happy first day of school?” Enjolras asks, huffing a little in surprise. “Oh, so you’re being _cuddly-_ cuddly right now.”

“I just love you so much,” Grantaire says, voice muffled in his husband’s shirt. “Never leave me again for so long.”

“It’s only been eight hours, sweetheart.”

“That’s too long.”

“We’ve survived longer,” Enjolras says fondly, but he gives Grantaire a kiss.

“If you dare leave for fifteen goddamn years ever again, I am divorcing you and keeping the cats.”

Grantaire yelps when Enjolras easily picks him up in one very smooth move and carries him to his desk. He perches on the edge and opens his legs to let his husband crowd in between, not even beginning to care about the mess his butt is probably making right now.

“Fortunately, I don’t plan to anytime soon, so you’re stuck with me, lovely.”

“Damn straight,” Grantaire mutters.

“Gay.”

“Obviously. Now, get down here. I need to kiss you.”

Enjolras bends down obligingly and presses a sweet kiss to his lips, minty breath fanning across his mouth when they part. Grantaire will never get tired of his husband’s kisses, not when he can finally have as many as he wants.

“I’m a little offended you think I’d leave you,” Enjolras murmurs, running a hand through Grantaire’s hair and resting it against the small of his back before inching down further.

Grantaire can do nothing but arch into him, winding his arms around Enjolras’s neck and letting a pleased expression slide onto his face.

“You’re too in love with me to leave me.”

Enjolras drops a kiss to the ring on Grantaire’s hand before twining their fingers together. Their lips meet again before they part to gaze lovingly into each other’s eyes.

“I promise that I really, really am.”

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Was that fluffy?
> 
> You can find my Tumblr [here](http://cx-shhhh.tumblr.com/)! I post a lot of memes and stuff, so maybe something will catch your interest. Feel free to send me an ask or rant about how adorable Grantaire is.
> 
> In addition, join the [hoes for enjolras](https://discord.com/invite/vERrqvA) server to talk or something.


End file.
